


Traditional

by DameRuth



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-31
Updated: 2010-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:30:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DameRuth/pseuds/DameRuth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Holmesian Christmas dinner, with daemons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traditional

**Author's Note:**

> A hugely popular fic topic is what a Holmes family Christmas dinner might be like, following Mycroft's throwaway line in "A Study In Pink." For ages I didn't have a clue as to how I would write something like that. . . until I ran across a completely unrelated request for crossover fic involving the _His Dark Materials_ 'verse. Neurons fired, synapses connected, and suddenly I just *knew* something about Sherlock's family. Voila -- fic. Rather odd fic at that (seriously, WTF, brain?), and a bit early in the season, but what the heck.
> 
> This is my first foray into HDM crossover territory (despite the lure of assigning daemons to favorite characters, which is always an enjoyable game); note that while Edgar Allen Poe, telly and "Anthea's" blackberry are out of place in the classic HDM setting, I figure the crossover works both ways. Whether _Blake's 7_ exists in this 'verse, or whether a line I couldn't resist using is merely fortuitous, is up to the reader. ;)
> 
> (FWIW, when writing this story I used an [online daemon name generator](http://rumandmonkey.com/widgets/toys/namegen/4781/), which was handy, as was [this site on Finnish names](http://www.sci.fi/~kajun/finns/); thought I'd share in case there was anyone else out there contemplating a similar crossover.) I made a few small changes after getting this back from my beta, Aibhinn; any remaining mistakes are mine alone.

John gave his daemon's black-and-tan fur a final brush-swipe, but he was stalling and he knew it; Adonia always looked trim and together, unlike John himself. John sighed and tossed the brush aside onto his bed.

"All right," he said, "tell me, 'Nia, am I fit for company?" He held his arms out slightly from his body in an inviting gesture.

His Alsatian daemon hopped off the bed and circled him in their familiar ritual, giving him a critical once-over. It felt like they were preparing for an inspection, even though John was wearing his best (well, all right, _only_ ) civilian suit instead of a uniform.

Adonia stopped in front of him and nodded curtly in approval, all business. Then she relaxed and let her tongue loll in a smile. "You look fine, John," she said.

"Bit shabby compared to everyone downstairs," John said, shooting a glance in the mirror and adjusting his tie one last time.

Adonia snorted. "Everyone downstairs is wearing several hundred pounds' worth of designer clothing apiece," she said. "You look _fine_. Let's go -- you know you're dying to meet Mummy."

"That will be an experience, won't it? At least it probably won't be _boring_."

"I'd be surprised if it were," Adonia said, chuckling at John's use of one of their flatmate's favorite words, and the two of them descended the stairs from John's room.

If you'd asked John beforehand how Sherlock would react to Mycroft's unilateral declaration that this year's Holmes family Christmas dinner would take place at 221B Baker street, and that he, Mycroft, would be handling all the arrangements, John would have laughed and predicted Sherlock's reaction to be a fat raspberry and a rude gesture (or something subtle, razor-sharp and Sherlockian that amounted to the same thing), but Sherlock had given in to his brother's declaration after the barest token resistance. John suspected blackmail.

Stepping into the main part of the flat was a surreal experience, even though John knew what to expect. Starting early that morning, several large, bulky men with blank faces, intimidating daemons and suspiciously tidy coveralls had arrived at the flat and removed most of the living room furniture (John hoped they'd bring it _back_ when this was over) to make space for the huge table that now dominated everything. It was made of dark, heavy, elaborately carved wood and looked at least three hundred years old; there were five matching chairs, one set at an end and two along each side. The table was covered with a crisp white linen cloth upon which glittered an elaborate array of china, crystal and silver. A sideboard had been brought in and now contained a long line of chafing dishes and serving utensils; Mycroft had spared no expense with the catering.

The living room's anbarics were dimmed, and most of the illumination came from a mad profusion of candles (John cast a quick look into the kitchen to double check that, yes, the fire extinguisher was still handy, just in case). The kitchen hadn't been touched and the usual bookcases and cabinets still lined the walls of the flat, clashing with the splendid dining arrangements.

John also noticed that the cow's-head on the wall, probably the single tackiest thing in the room, was still in place. Sherlock had accepted Mycroft's invasion of their home, but he wasn't above being passive-aggressive about it.

Someone had started a fire in the grate and the mantel was free of its usual clutter; in its place was a tasteful arrangement of pine, holly and ivy -- the real thing; John could catch a faint whiff of sap from where he stood. The fresh, bracing scent of greenery blended pleasantly with the mouthwatering aromas emanating from the sideboard. The skull was still there, though (John detected more Sherlock-defiance at work), and perched atop it in her accustomed pose was Sherlock's raven daemon, Sephronia, looking more than ever as if she might start quoting Poe at any second. John and Adonia had long since agreed that if they ever came upon a bust of Pallas in a second-hand store, they would buy it and put it next to the skull, just to see what would happen.

Sherlock was standing to one side of the fireplace, near his daemon, his elbow propped on the end of the mantel, staring with grim, unfocused intensity at Mycroft, who was mirroring the pose (and the expression) on the other side of the fire.

The two brothers looked like a mismatched set of bookends. Mycroft was wearing a sleek grey three-piece suit that could have come straight out of a historical costume drama, except for the tie: bright green with narrow red stripes, a jarringly festive touch. Sherlock, in contrast, sported a trim black modern suit paired with a brilliantly crimson silk shirt, its top two buttons undone. John read his flatmate's choice of clothing as a sarcastic nod to the season, simultaneously intended to tweak Mycroft's sense of propriety, but the end result was to make Sherlock look even more like a vampire than usual.

Mycroft's assistant -- "Angelica" today -- sat on the sofa. It was one of the few remaining bits of normal furniture, shoved off to one side and looking forlorn in its comfortable shabbiness. Angelica was wearing something midnight blue and spangly that belonged at an entertainment awards ceremony and she was, no surprise, ignoring everything and everyone else in the room while texting with flawless concentration. Small expressions ran across her face as she worked, too quickly for John to make sense of them. On her knee, her chameleon daemon (gone to a dark charcoal color in an apparent attempt to match her dress) rolled its turreted eyes around the room in different directions, as if trying to see everything at once.

Mycroft's daemon, Bronwyn ("Seriously, _Bronwyn_?" John had sputtered when Sherlock first mentioned her name in passing, only to be silenced by his flatmate's withering glare), an imposing great grey owl, was perched on the back of the sofa, reading over Angelica's shoulder. Except for Angelica's flying thumbs and the dancing flames, everything was completely still and suffocatingly silent.

In John's experience, Christmas dinners traditionally meant crowded, rowdy rooms full of loud adults and hyperactive children, telly blaring in the background, large quantities of inexpensive food and alcohol (probably a bit too much of the latter), and at least one gigantic, cracking row that involved Harry somehow.

This was not going to be one of those sorts of evenings, he suspected. He felt rather adrift.

"Well, this is jolly," John remarked to Adonia, in a private, human-to-daemon undertone. "I wonder if things'll pick up once Mummy arrives?"

"When will she get here, d'you think?"

John shrugged. "You heard Sherlock; he said she was flying in, but didn't say when her zeppelin was due."

Just then, there was a loud rattle outside the front windows, making both John and Adonia jump. It sounded like something striking the wrought-iron railing of the balcony.

"Ah," Mycroft said, sounding arch and bored. "That'll be Mummy."

"I expect so," Sherlock replied, in the same tone of voice.

A pause. "Well," Mycroft said, "Let her in. It's _your_ flat, after all."

Sherlock held position for a moment longer, drawing out the brothers' not-staring contest, but then he gave way, striding to one of the windows, drawing back the curtain and raising the sash to its fullest extent. He stepped to one side, continuing to hold the curtain out of the way; as John gaped, confused, a slender form ducked through the open window, straightening to survey the room with cool detachment.

It was a woman: tall, pale and youthful in appearance, dressed in elegantly tattered twists of floating black silk, her dark hair tumbling halfway down her back in wild, unrestrained curls. In one hand she held a green pine branch, in the other a strung and wickedly recurved bow. The feathered ends of long arrows peeped over one shoulder and a crown of living white flowers circled her brow. If there could be any remaining doubt as to her nature, it would have been immediately dispelled by the fact there was no sign of her daemon.

Moving precisely and efficiently, but without haste, the apparition propped the pine branch against Sherlock's music stand and bent to lay the bow flat at her feet, shrugging off her quiver of arrows at the same time, placing it alongside the bow.

That done, she rose and stepped forward over her discarded weapons, declaring in a low alto voice colored with the hint of an exotic, angular accent, "Greetings, my sons."

"Oh," murmured Adonia, stunned. "That. Explains. _So much._ "

"Doesn't it just?" John responded, head swimming with shock and understanding.

"Mother," Sherlock said, leaning down to accept a kiss on his cheek, his voice coolly reserved and more respectful than John had ever heard it.

"Mummy," Mycroft said, the endearment sounding ridiculously formal as he stepped forward to be kissed in turn.

Medically speaking, John would have said it was impossible for the human brain to short-circuit like an overloaded piece of anbaric equipment, but subjectively he was experiencing something very close to that state, his thought processes flailing and sparking into incoherence over the fact there was a _witch_ \-- a beautiful, daemonless, young-looking, really-very-hot, nearly naked witch -- standing in the middle of their _flat_ , and she was Sherlock's _mother_ . . .

Adonia's shoulder bumping (none too gently) against the side of John's leg broke him out of his helpless thought-loop. Blinking, he struggled to pick up and reassemble the scattered bits of his brain.

He was granted a few moments' grace by Angelica, who actually set aside her blackberry in favor of greeting the new arrival. The two women embraced with genuine warmth, the tall witch greeting Angelica by name without needing to ask what she was being called that particular day.

Then it was John's turn.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice seeming to come from a great distance, "this is my mother, Kaarina Hatakka. Mother, John."

Automatically, John extended his hand, and it was taken in a firm, winter-cold grip while fierce, ice-pale eyes studied his face. John swallowed. Kaarina might be the youngest _looking_ person in the room, but up close he could tell she was old -- older than him by a damn sight, possibly older then the building around them. He took in the dark, wild hair; the alabaster skin; the sweeping cheekbones . . . there could be no doubt Sherlock favored his mother's side of the family. Mycroft must take after their ordinary -- no, _mortal_ , John was willing to bet the late Holmes Sr. had been anything but ordinary -- human father.

Even more than the physical resemblance, there was a familiarity in the focus and insight of Kaarina Hatakka's gaze, though it was far more powerful than anything John had ever experienced from Sherlock. He felt as if he were a creature made of air and glass, swept by a searchlight, his entire soul illuminated and cataloged.

Then, incredibly, Kaarina smiled. Just a twitch of the lips, barely an expression at all, but John was used to reading Sherlock's face and and no trouble recognizing what he saw.

"Doctor John Watson," Kaarina said, shaping the syllables with care, as if his simple, ordinary name were something rare and exotic. "I greet you, and am glad. My youngest son leads an . . . _active_ life and it eases my heart to know he has a healer for a friend."

The accompanying, _He's probably going to need patching up on a regular basis, the idiot,_ was unspoken but unmistakable, and John felt an answering, ghostly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, ma'am," he said. "I promise I'll do my best to keep Sherlock in one piece."

There was a swift glint of appreciative humor in those pale, slanting eyes. Then Kaarina dropped his hand and turned her attention to the flat, nodding slightly as she scanned the walls and shelves, ignoring the massive, anomalous table for the moment. Any difficulty John might have had in picturing her as his flatmate's mother evaporated when her traveling gaze faltered, just for a second, upon encountering the cow's-head on the wall.

"This looks . . . much as I expected," was all she said, however, to her everlasting credit in John's opinion.

Mycroft coughed. "Well," he said. "Shall we sit down?" He clapped his hands and two large men seemed to materialize out of nowhere, standing at parade rest by the sideboard. One man's daemon was a rottweiler, the other was a low-slung but massive bulldog. Both men wore aprons and, if John's eyes weren't deceiving him, shoulder holsters under their uniform jackets.

The order of seating was somewhat predictable: Kaarina at the head of the table (Sherlock held her chair for her, after jockeying almost imperceptibly with Mycroft for the honor), Mycroft to her right and Sherlock to her left, with Angelica next to Mycroft and John next to Sherlock. John supposed he could have been insulted, but in this company he was just glad he and Angelica hadn't been relegated to a separate Sidekicks' Table or some such.

John might have thought Kaarina would look out of place, but she settled into her position as matriarch with queenly grace, perfectly at ease. He imagined she would look the same anywhere, whether perched on an ice crag under the Northern aurora, or here in 221B Baker Street.

The two (*cough*cough*) "servers" brought three daemon-stands from somewhere, setting them behind Sherlock, Mycroft and Kaarina's chairs. Sephronia and Bronwyn took their expected places with much fluttering and smoothing of feathers. Moments later, a pale shape came arrowing through the still-open window and braked by flaring narrow wings that nearly brushed the walls of the room: Kaarina's albatross daemon joining the gathering, settling onto his designated perch with pinpoint precision.

As John shook out his napkin and settled it in his lap, he could hear 'Nia conversing behind his chair with Sephronia. Despite her harsh, forbidding appearance, the raven's voice was surprisingly sweet on the rare occasions when she spoke. Exchange completed, Adonia settled next to John's chair, sitting tall enough to watch the above-table proceedings rather than curling up at his feet as she typically did. Her curiosity was getting in in the way of her manners, but John didn't blame her in the slightest.

"What was all that about?" John asked in an undertone as he studied the exceptional array of utensils before him on the tablecloth. He'd done operations and saved lives with less in the way of cutlery. Still, he refused to be daunted, firm in the knowledge that "start at the outside and work in" covered nearly all eventualities, and if it didn't he had Sherlock sitting at his elbow to watch for cues.

"I was asking Sephronia why she and Sherlock didn't give us a heads-up about what to expect," Adonia responded. "She said they didn't realize a warning was necessary and besides, everything went perfectly well, so why should we care?" John sensed, rather than saw, his daemon's eyeroll.

"Told you," he said. "Not boring."

"Maybe a little boredom wouldn't come amiss," 'Nia responded, tone acidic but affectionate.

John snorted, but broke off when he caught the tail-end of a glance Mycroft had been aiming his way. It was not a friendly look; in fact, it was downright peeved, as if John had done something wrong. Bronwyn was openly glaring at Adonia, who merely sniffed and ignored her.

 _Or did I do something right?_ John wondered. He was a far more intuitive thinker than Sherlock, but every now and then the occasional deductive cascade worked for him, too.

 _Was that what this was about? Hoping Mummy would get an eyeful of Sherlock's current life -- myself included -- and side with Mycroft in getting Sherlock to Do Something Useful with his life?_

John rolled the thought around in his mind as he nudged one of his forks into more perfect alignment with its fellows. It left a bitter, angry taste in his mouth but he swallowed it down.

 _Still, didn't work, did it?_ John thought, an oddly familiar flush of satisfaction replacing the anger. It felt as if he'd scored some sort of point in Sherlock's favor.

Mycroft said something then, addressing his mother in a language that matched the angular cadences of Kaarina's accent. Even when he wasn't speaking English, his tone was as unctuous and condescending as usual.

Before his brother could finish, Sherlock cut in with something sharp and contradictory in the same language, but was silenced in turn by Kaarina.

"Sherlock," she said in the universal voice of mothers everywhere, "don't interrupt." Then, equally stern, she shifted attention to her other son. "Mycroft, it is rude to exclude others at the table. Speak English, so everyone can understand." An inclination of her head indicated John and Angelica (who was back to texting energetically and shamelessly). Angelica's daemon rolled its eyes randomly about and neither seemed to notice the scene playing out around them.

Mycroft's chin went up in defiance, but he subsided. John, in his peripheral vision, could see Sherlock smirk for just a second.

That was when everything clicked. They were in the middle of a massive family row, right now, but unlike the Watson version which involved a lot of yelling, hand-waving and profanity, this was something much subtler, which was why it had taken him so long to recognize it.

John found himself immensely cheered. The territory suddenly seemed much more familiar, and this was a game he knew how to play -- did he _ever._ Whenever Harry had blown up at someone (or vice versa) over the turkey and brussels sprouts, John always been her backup. She was his sister after all, when everything was said and done, and deep down he'd been sorry to lose that sense of sibling solidarity following the breakup with Clara.

Right. New family, new rules, but John was confident he'd pick them up soon enough, and then he'd have Sherlock's back. Together they'd be unbeatable, as in everything else, and it _really_ didn't hurt that they seemed to have an ally in Kaarina. Angelica, while solidly on Mycroft's side, was either too distracted to be an effective participant or was deliberately sitting this one out, so . . .

 _Oh, Mycroft, you're in trouble._ John smiled at his array of spoons. The "wait staff" were starting to make the rounds with soup, something creamy that smelled wonderfully of carrots and ginger; John's stomach growled in appreciation, his appetite very much in evidence now that his nervousness was gone. After a steady diet of poor-bachelor cooking and cheap takeaway, he intended to enjoy the hell out of this meal, the more so because Mycroft was footing the bill.

Behind him, he heard Adonia say something to Sephronia, followed by both daemons' quiet, conspiratorial laughter. He didn't even need to glance at Sherlock to know the other man was smiling.

 _I love a traditional Christmas dinner,_ John thought with satisfaction, scooping up a spoonful of soup and taking a sip. It was delicious.


End file.
